But when I circled back up front, I found out why the sheriff had been whittling so fiercely. There sat Archibald in the drawing room, having another word with Mrs. Becky. The two of them appeared stuck fast together as thieves, which left me wondering if the sheriff's wife hadn't finally decided to leave her husband for good. Archibald was single enough for her needs and appeared to be just basking in her attentions. And the cookies he was being served didn't seem to break his molars or curl his tongue, either. Those were good signs if he was planning on running off with Mrs. Becky. She was the kind of woman who had more important things to do than wrestle with recipes over a hot stove.
When I said they certainly seemed to be enjoying themselves, Archibald straightened out as if he'd just shot himself in the foot. Mrs. Becky sized me up as if she'd be aiming for my foot next.
"So what if we are?” she asked, cool and level as could be.
"I was just wondering if you were talking about ghosts,” I said.
"That is none of your concern,” she informed me.
When I mentioned that her husband wanted to gather all the telephone owners at Miss Etheline's place at midnight, she said, “Well of course he does, Stanley—"
Unlike some I could mention, she never took to calling me Joe or Injun Joe. Characters from a story book didn't interest her at all. Cold hard facts was more her style, much to her husband's discomfort.
"—he's always planning things for after dark. Makes it easier to slip away when he flubs up. But don't worry, Deputy, I wouldn't miss this soirée for the world."
That wasn't anywhere near the answer I'd been expecting, which gave me something else to worry about. I'd never known Mrs. Becky to be so cooperative before. She even gave me a pleasant smile as she showed me to the door.
* * * *
Etheline Spavin's parlor had once been the finest room in town, though by now it had begun to list on its foundation. The furniture inside might be oak, but it was all mighty wobbly oak that looked about one overweight guest from kindling. All the cushions were threadbare, and the carpet worn through in more spots than I could count. The clock on the mantel said it was 5:43 and probably had been saying so for the past thirty years or more. Cobwebs connected it up to little cupid statues on opposite sides of the mantle. And of course there was the smell of cats, which filled every cushion and lap in sight.
Sheriff Huck had already appropriated the most comfortable chair by the time I pulled in. A large tabby had joined him. His wife Becky had settled down as far away from him as she could get. Rutherford Dewitt lined up to the sheriff's left, looking considerably wrung out, and Alfreda Scrim was complaining to her husband, the Reverend Scrim, about how noisy the cemetery had been of late. I had asked the reverend to join us in case any of the spirits we were dealing with got too frisky. No one was paying Alfreda much mind, particularly her husband, who had a glazed look that anyone who'd spent any time around his wife recognized. I took the perspiration on the reverend's brow to mean that he was uneasy about crossing paths with any spooks. That left our hostess, Etheline, in her wheelchair, and her nephew Perry, who appeared ready to protect his aunt from any spirits who showed up.
One last guest, a stranger, was ornamenting the chair to the sheriff's right. Although this gent was wearing a tweed suit coat and thin black bowtie, he had a leathery, sun-creased look about him, particularly across his forehead, where a tan line showed that he usually wore a hat. The hat in question was resting on his knee. It was a weather-beaten, shapeless thing. As soon as I stepped into the parlor, this stranger challenged me with a frosty stare that said we'd met before. I didn't have time to sort that out, though, not with the sheriff suddenly talking over Alfreda.
"Here's my deputy,” Sheriff Huck announced, sounding as if he'd been bragging about me, which could only mean one thing—he'd found some way to one-up me. “Late as usual, but for a good reason, I'm guessing. Have you figured out which ghost's to blame, Deputy?"
"Almost,” I answered.
"Only almost?” the sheriff chided. “We need to wrap this business up while we still got some telephone owners alive. Joe, maybe you better fill us in on what you're thinking, holes and all. Somebody here might be able to supply the rest."
Modesty wasn't the sheriff's strong suit, and there wasn't much doubt he expected to be the one who'd pull everything together. The twinkle in his eye said he was ready to step on my back—soon as I fell flat on my face—and reveal what had really been truly going on. Unwilling to let him sail across the finish line without even breaking a sweat, I took the plunge, hoping things would sort themselves out as I went.
"The thing you've got to know about ghosts,” I started out, trying to sound as though my Indian heritage made me an expert on the subject, “is that they're usually trying to tell you something."
"Humbug!” Rutherford Dewitt declared, stomping his foot down.
"I wouldn't be so fast on the draw there, Rutherford,” the sheriff cautioned. “Joe's father was a medicine man, you know, so when it comes to the spirit world, I don't trust anybody more than my deputy here. Ain't that so, Joe?"
"Sometimes,” I allowed. Turning to Rutherford, I added, “Take those two little tykes that make you so jumpy, Mr. Dewitt. They mostly just want to say goodbye to you, and then I expect they'll be on their way."
The drugstore owner gurgled deep in his throat but didn't manage to get anything else out. Mostly he just turned red in the face.
"What else you got, Joe?” the sheriff asked.
"A strong suspicion,” I said, stepping behind the sheriff and the stranger perched next him, “that it's not the night watchman at the lumberyard who's behind all this."
"And what catapulted you to that conclusion?” the sheriff wanted to know, pleasant as could be, as if I was his prize pupil.
"Just the fact that whoever did away with Miss Molly left the rear gate to the yard open on her way out."
"That was careless of them,” the sheriff agreed, “but what's your point?"
Mrs. Becky answered that one for me. “That a ghost wouldn't have needed to open the gate in the first place. They could have floated right through it."
"Now that's some first-rate detecting, if that's what Joe was thinking,” the sheriff conceded. “But maybe that back gate being open doesn't have anything to do with our case at all. You know as well as I do that schoolboys are always cutting through that lumberyard rather than going all the way around it. But my deputy did let something slip that gave me the prickles."
Everyone but Mrs. Becky straightened up some at that announcement. She just shook her head disgusted like, as if she'd heard her husband pretend to know something too often to count.
"I heard him call this ghost a she,” the sheriff went on. “Does that mean you think it's Cedric's opera singer who's behind all this mayhem?"
"Not at all,” I came right back. “And I'd like to also say that you could have saved your money, Sheriff."
"Oh?” The sheriff sounded innocent as a cardsharp. “What money's that?"
"The dollar or two that you shelled out to Lady Small to try and hit that high C."
"What ever gave you such an idea as that?"
"Two things. The fact that she used to sing in the circus while standing atop a horse, and the way she can't hardly speak today, probably because she strained her cords working for you last night."
"Pish-posh,” the sheriff said, waving me off. “If that's all you got to complain about—"
"No, I'd also like to mention that I thought your horse-thieving days were all behind you."
"Now what are you going on about?” the sheriff asked, turning testy. He'd made a mistake or two in his youth that he liked to keep buried.
"Just that you were seen riding down Main Street on Reverend Scrim's white horse."
"On whose word?"
"All the ghosts out to the cemetery."
"Joe,” the sheriff lectured, “if that's all the testimony you've got—"
"And th
e reverend,” I tacked on before he could build up a full head of steam.
The reverend gave the sheriff the kind of sad little helpless nod he passed out to sinners, and for once the reverend's wife's mouth was open without any sound rushing out.
"I hope you're going somewhere with all this,” the sheriff crabbed, “'cause you're shedding friends fast."
"Only this,” I said, strolling behind everyone circled up in the parlor. One or two craned their heads to follow me, but mostly they all stared straight ahead, tensing up as if expecting me to tap them on the shoulder. “One of the people in this room,” I went on, “might not be exactly what they pretend to be."
"Joe, Joe, Joe,” the sheriff lamented, wagging his head weary like, “that goes without saying. You can't be human without accumulating yourself some secrets. That much is a given."
"This particular suspect,” I continued while stopping behind Etheline Spavin's wheelchair, “has been heard arguing over the telephone with every person who's turned up dead."
"I hope you're getting all that from some kind of reliable source,” the sheriff cautioned.
Well, my theory was a little weak on that point, but I was hoping that Mrs. Becky would step up and join her voice with mine ‘cause I was pretty sure she listened at her phone same as everyone else. I should have known that she was at least as prideful a creature as her husband and didn't want anyone to know that she'd actually stooped to eavesdropping on that party line. When my eyes darted toward her, she was busy gazing out the nearest window, even though there was nothing to see out there but shadows. So my gamble was a bust, not that it kept me from playing my bluff out to the bitter end.
"I'm not just depending on one source,” I forged on. “I'm going by what I've seen with my own two eyes."
"And what's that, pray tell?” The sheriff fought a yawn.
"That some of the ghosts in this town aren't as dead as others."
That revelation at least got Rutherford Dewitt leaning forward to hear what I had to say next.
"Any in particular?” the sheriff quizzed.
"One,” I answered, and without warning, I took hold of Etheline Spavin's wheelchair and tipped it forward.
What happened after that wasn't exactly what I'd been planning on. Etheline didn't stand up to break her fall, which was what I'd been hoping for. No, she tumbled onto the carpet, her legs as curled up and lifeless as a rag doll's. That wasn't what all my investigating had led me to expect at all. I had kind of doubted she'd make a run for it. She was in her upper eighties after all. But I did think she might blush a little for pretending to be an invalid all these years and maybe even ‘fess up that she'd been sneaking around scaring people to death. How she'd managed that last part hadn't exactly revealed itself to me—yet. But one step at a time, that's my motto. Nothing of the sort happened though, and didn't I feel the fool? Still, that didn't explain who was wearing a cloak and floating around so grand up on the widow's walk.
Etheline's nephew made a grab to catch her but too late. And Alfreda Scrim found her voice long enough to say, “Well, I never.” And the sheriff had to pretend to cough to cover up a laugh ‘cause he always enjoyed himself most when I was flailing around and sinking fast.
I didn't get a chance to worry about any of that though, not as busy as I was trying to help Etheline back into her chair and flinging apologies and wishing I could turn invisible as a ghost myself so that I could fade through the nearest wall. There were six men in that room, and all of us but the sheriff lent a hand to get that poor old lady upright again. Once comfy, she was willing to forgive. Actually, she didn't even seem to quite understand what had happened to her. Her nephew was another story.
Perry Woodley wanted me arrested on the spot. Given the general mood of the room, I'd be getting off easy if that's all that happened, but then the sheriff did the one thing I would have never expected. He stood up for me. In his own way.
"Truth be told,” the sheriff said, “the first one I've got a mind to arrest is you, Perry Woodley. ‘Cause my deputy here ain't the sort of lawman who goes off half cocked, excepting maybe when he's been misled by a professional.” He shot his wife a knowing little sneer, as if he suspected that she'd misled me about Etheline Spavin's arguing with the others over the telephone. His thinking that only made sense if he'd caught her eavesdropping a time or two, so I'd been right about that much. “His instincts were sound,” the sheriff breezed on, “even if his aim was off. Perry Woodley, I do hereby arrest you for the murders of Widow Brown, Cedric Whipplemore, and Molly McIntosh."
A steamboat whose smokestacks were spewing sparks could have cruised straight through the center of that parlor and I've got my doubts anyone would have noticed. Everyone was too keen on watching Perry Woodley straighten up to his full height, which was a good deal higher than any of us had ever noticed before, level a quaking finger at the sheriff's nose, and demand to know, “What gives you the right—"
The sheriff didn't even bother to get up, just answered from his chair, “Oh I think you know exactly what gives me the right. For starters, the fact that you happened to buy some rat poison from Rutherford here."
"To take care of some rats for my aunty."
"Now ain't that a little too much to swallow?” the sheriff asked, patting the tomcat on his lap. “What with all the cats around here?"
"Tell him, Aunty."
"I'm afraid I don't know w-what to say,” Etheline Spavins sputtered.
"Remember?” Perry Woodley urged with a frown. “For down in the cellar. You don't let the cats down there."
Etheline's jaw trembled as if she was trying to recall what her nephew was talking about but couldn't. All she managed was a feeble, “Oh, dear."
"Why would I want to murder those people?” Perry said, turning away from his aunty. “That's crazy."
"Maybe because you thought it would leave you rich?” the sheriff suggested.
"What are you talking about?"
"Yes, what?” Alfreda Scrim wanted to know, beside herself to think that someone in Marquis knew something she didn't.
"His inheriting this mansion,” Sheriff Huck revealed.
"Are you daft?” Perry Woodley cried. “Aunty's leaving it to the town. To install telephones. Everyone heard her say that."
"And how do you feel about that?” the sheriff wheedled.
"As if it's her business,” Perry Woodley answered, though it came out kind of stiff and resentful.
"And mightn't there be something you think she should do with her inheritance?"
"What are you getting at, Sheriff?"
"That maybe you're hoping to change your sweet old aunty's mind about who gets what when she's gone."
"I resent—"
But the sheriff was playing to the whole room by then and talked right over him, saying, “If ghosts were to convince Etheline here that these telephones aren't safe—which they aren't—then she might forget this nonsense about putting one of the things in every house as her legacy. She might decide to do something else with her worldly possessions, something like leave them to her nephew here, who's always so kind and Johnny-on-the-spot when she needs something done."
"Why of all the black-hearted, low-down—” That was Alfreda Scrim sounding a little more country than usual.
"And isn't it convenient,” the sheriff rolled along, “that he's a lawyer? In case any wills need changing, I mean."
"The only thing my aunty's got of any value,” Perry Woodley spouted, “is this mansion we're sitting in. And it's been falling apart for years. She's been too poor to afford repairs and the next good flood will probably wash it down to Keokuk. So why would I want it?"
But the sheriff went right on spinning his web, saying, “Oh, I think we both know the answer to that.” Nudging the cat off his lap, he stood up to lay out one last piece of brilliance for us to admire. “The railroad's looking to build a bridge across the river right here at Marquis, and if I'm not mistaken, the only place to do it is through the
center of this house. That ought to make it worth a little something, don't you think, Mr. Leavenworth?"
Here the sheriff turned toward the stranger he'd invited along. Of course everyone else turned with him. And I have to say that the stranger kind of enjoyed being the center of attention because he didn't say a word in answer to the sheriff, just flashed his dimples while looking around as if the joke was on us.
"Mr. Leavenworth here is the head surveyor for the railroad,” the sheriff revealed.
At least that explained why the gent looked so familiar. We'd nearly come to blows when I almost bowled him over in the alley beside Dewitt's Drug Emporium.
"I asked him along,” the sheriff continued, “to help fill out this little tale of greed that we have here. Go ahead.” The sheriff nodded to the surveyor. “Tell them how much the railroad is willing to pay for this prime riverbank location, sir."
That's when the stranger put on his hat, stood up, and said, “That lawyer's not your man."
The sheriff's jaw did some flopping. “But I thought you said—"
"You old windbag,” the stranger cut the sheriff off. “If you'd been listening, instead of gassing on about how you'd found your murder suspect and your murder weapon, and reckoning you were going to outshine your deputy or bust, well, if you hadn't been so wound up about all that, you might have heard me tell you what I'm going to say now. The place we wanted to buy belongs to that fool there.” He pointed at Rutherford Dewitt. “His store's the only site where it makes any sense to build our bridge, and he says he won't sell."
"Can't,” Rutherford boomed in a stubborn voice. “I've already left my brothers behind once. Won't do it again."
"Now hold everything,” Sheriff Huck squawked, but that's all he got out. Mostly, he just stood there opening and closing his mouth as if his teeth didn't fit quite right.
We were all so busy enjoying that spectacle that what happened next locked us up solid as yesterday's porridge. The telephone rang.
Everybody flinched. Well, maybe not all of us. I did notice that Mrs. Becky was keeping such a close eye on everyone else that she managed to stay seated. Three times the bell rang, which was the signal for Etheline's house. We all sat there gaping at the telephone on the wall as if it was a hangman's noose.
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